Sila's Fortune (23 page)

‘Tonight, you fuck her,' Matt announced simply. ‘If she's invited you to her place, that's why. What other reason?'

What other reason? For his brilliance, for his dynamism, for his success, for the pure, precise definition, like a perfectly realised demonstration, of the ideal price. Surely there was a poetry of mathematics that meant he deserved to rub shoulders with artists? Banking, after all, was not a mortal sin. But Matt, gloomy as ever, was not persuaded by these arguments.

Simon carefully got ready. Far from the cold arena that had seen him tremble, the gangster artist descended the white staircase. A new life was waiting for him.

The image of the man with his hand raised haunted Shoshana. Not the man himself, but the image. In fact a double image. That of the man sprawled on the floor, fingers streaked with blood, and that of the man making the sign of peace. It seemed to her that the one was assimilated into the other and that by her actions she had cancelled out the calamity of the first. In apologising to this man, she had brought peace to discord.

That same evening, as they had dinner together, she watched Mark and Christopher reunited under her protection, saved, perhaps, by her intervention. They were eating, Mark talking about his day, Christopher saying nothing – but at least they'd managed to drag him away from the TV – and she kept the conversation going, all the while thrilled by this marvellous normality. She felt relieved, as though still buoyed up by the black waiter's gesture. The man at her table now was not a gargoyle but her husband, Mark Ruffle, a man who could be quick-tempered but who was endearing, full of vitality, the man she'd been with since her childhood. And setting aside the weariness and the outbursts, wasn't he the love of her life?

Mark was wearing a T-shirt that hugged his pecs. At regular intervals, in a tic he had had since adolescence, he'd flick his wrist to flex his biceps. This little quirk, which normally irritated
her, Shoshana now found charming. The block of childhood from which the adult was emerging, she found poignant. And Ruffle himself, sensing Shoshana's gentleness, was happier and more talkative than usual. He ruffled his son's hair and the boy looked up, astonished, then stared down at his plate. He recounted a story one of his brokers had told him about going into an apartment so disgustingly filthy that he'd thought twice about getting the tenant to sign a contract, so pained was he at the thought that the beautiful house purchased with a loan from Ruffle Universal Building would be sullied by such a revolting creature. And Shoshana, who had often met her husband's brokers and was under no illusions about their moral standards, burst out laughing. Chris, not understanding what was going on, laughed with her.

The miracle of a raised hand.

They lived for a time in the wake of an image.

RUB's figures were impressive. The brokers, motivated by their bonuses, scoured the area and no one was able to resist their glib sales pitch. It was not simply their conjuring skills, it was the fact that all of America believed in mortgages. Ruffle made the most of the expanding property bubble in which prices rose steadily year on year. He had been among the first to market, had set up shop and now trees could grow to the sky: the property boom had begun. In Miami, it hadn't yet exploded, but there was a definite trend. Poor people moved into beautiful houses whose values constantly rose and suddenly the same poor people discovered they were rich: their houses were worth two and even three hundred thousand dollars. Ruffle Universal Building, now believing they had this money, hounded them to
take out supplementary loans. Ruffle had finally found what he needed to say and being a man of action, a man who relied on facts, he gave an example. He would say: ‘I am the architect of the American dream. Through me, cleaning ladies can own their own homes.' And he would cite the example of Dolores, a forty-year-old cleaning woman from Mexico living in straitened circumstances who, thanks to RUB, had bought a little house and later took a second mortgage on a big house which she rented out. In passing, RUB had given her a loan to buy a car. Suddenly this cleaning woman with nothing now had everything: she and her three children lived in the little house, earned money renting out the big house and drove around in a Mercedes; her lifelong dreams had come true. When she went back to Mexico, to her squalid little village, children flocked around the car, looking at their reflections in the tinted windows and the gleaming polished bodywork of the Mercedes. And Ruffle never tired of saying: ‘Before, she had nothing; now she has everything.'

People fell silent when he said this. In their eyes, he saw the awe and admiration of Sundays. He had become what he always wanted. This thing he had felt as a teenager once a week he now felt every day in spite of the staffing, administrative and financial difficulties inherent in running a business. His life was
justified
. He was an entrepreneur, which was the pinnacle of achievement in the hierarchy of his country, his family were together, he was rich and he did good around him. He was the architect of the American dream.

His satisfaction was flawless. All his life Ruffle had been searching for himself and, curiously, this man who seemed
little more than a moron had found himself. His narrow mind constricted by prejudice had nonetheless allowed him to find the path to become what he had always wanted to be. He was rich, popular and respectable. In short, he had become a part of the image bequeathed him by his family. Doubt was therefore forbidden.

Shoshana had watched his act of self-realisation, by which a man who constantly doubted his abilities had managed to shore up the cracks, and build a statue of self-satisfaction that was solid as a rock. She had been vaguely surprised, particularly since she herself was plagued by self-doubt. She considered herself a woman of limited intellect, a mother tyrannised by an all-powerful, all-televisual son, a woman with no professional life. As such, her husband's energy left her paralysed and plunged her back into the depths of self-doubt. Essentially, she was simply a pleasing image, a snapshot brought to life by Mark in his living room, in his bedroom. She much preferred this self-satisfied husband to the bitter gargoyle who asserted himself through violence, though she knew the lies that propped up all his charming stories about cleaning women; the fractured man had found a purpose. At least he had found his role, which was more than she had. Shoshana had no role and this was what she truly lacked. With no identity to assume, she wandered through a maze of questions, constantly crashing into distorting mirrors that reflected hideous images of her.

In the end, the only image that still made her happy was her physical appearance. And though she was ambivalent even about this precisely because she felt it was the only thing Mark valued about her, at least it was a positive point. At the gym, there were mirrors
everywhere. The women sweating and contorting, working on the all-important bums and tums, or some more minor aesthetic exercise, stared, wincing, at their bouncing reflections. When the pain barrier hit, when abdominal exercises became spasms, when thigh muscles cramped, the mirror became the Grail, the almighty, reassuring god of appearances to whom they offered up their panting and their pain. Shoshana was aware that the way other women looked at her had changed little since she was a teenager. In some sense, she was still the Clarimont cheerleader, envied and admired for her legs, her breasts. The tight buns squeezed into tight shorts, she did the exercises gracefully and skilfully. She knew that if the instructor was a man, he looked at her more than at the others. And when the exercises became more difficult, her effortlessness, since she had been an athlete, brought a discreet smile of pleasure to her lips, a sense of pride she still retained, a paltry but pleasant sense of pride.

After one such session, and without quite knowing what she intended to do, she headed for Sila's restaurant. As she had the first time, she stood staring through the window. Then, realising it was still early, that she still had time, she went inside.

He was there. She saw him immediately. He was talking to a waiter, asking him to do something. He turned. He stopped. Then slowly, very slowly, he walked towards her. She did not move, stood frozen in the doorway, breathing hard.

‘Hello,' he said.

‘Hello.'

‘You left very suddenly last time.'

It was a statement, not a criticism, with a sort of acceptance she took for complicity. She nodded.

‘Would you like to have lunch?'

‘Well, a drink anyway. Is that okay?'

‘Of course. I'll show you to a table.'

‘Could I have the same table please?'

The restaurant was almost empty. Several waiters were standing around doing nothing. She felt out of place. What was she doing here? Why had she come? For the peace, obviously. To experience again the magic that, for a time, had brought peace to her house but was fading now, leaving her anxious, like an emptiness inside her. Yes, to relive the magic of the man with the outstretched hand.

He reappeared with a Coke. She couldn't remember ordering one, but he would know better than her.

‘Take a seat,' she said.

‘I have to work.'

‘Please,' she insisted. ‘I'd like to talk to you. I was stupid, running away like that last time …'

Sila sat down opposite her.

‘You didn't run away …' he said calmly, ‘you apologised, though you had no need to since the offence was entirely your husband's, and then you left because you felt you had done your duty. Thank you for your gesture.'

‘I'm the one who should be thanking you,' she stammered. ‘When you got up, I mean when you put up your hand in a sign of peace, I thought that it was wonderful, you know, I thought, oh, I'm sorry, maybe this isn't what you meant at all, but I thought that you were prepared to forgive me, to give me inner peace.'

‘Inner peace?' Sila asked, astonished.

‘Yes, really, inner peace. I felt like I'd been in torment ever since that terrible moment, that nothing was right with my life, with my marriage. I was so angry with my husband, I couldn't bring myself to touch him. You'll laugh, but he reminded me of those grotesque animals carved in stone at Notre-Dame.'

‘The gargoyles?'

‘Exactly,' she said, ‘a gargoyle, brutish and dangerous, taking it out on the weak.'

‘I am not weak, Madame Ruffle.'

It did not even occur to her that he shouldn't know her name.

‘I didn't mean to offend you,' she said, ‘I …'

‘It's okay, I'm not offended, in fact I shouldn't have reacted like that. But I'm not weak,' he said, still completely composed.

She looked at him. His calmness impressed her.

‘Of course, you're right. It's obvious. It's just that my husband was so stupid, so brutal, so … grotesquely violent. I couldn't bear it, what he did. I felt so guilty, so upset. And it was a wonderful stroke of luck running into you like this.'

‘It wasn't luck. I came to Miami because I knew your husband lived in Florida. Not because I wanted revenge, I assure you, not for any particular reason. I just wanted to be closer to this man. I don't know why. I just did. Because, like you, I was stunned. I couldn't understand. That night, I was just doing my job, waiting on tables, and a man got up and punched me. Because he thinks he's entitled to do what he likes. Because he's paying a lot of money for his meal. Or some other blindly stupid reason. So I came here. I took my time. Since your last visit, I did a little research. I know where you live, I know what your husband does for a living. I've seen how he exploits the
gullibility, the poverty of the people in this city. I can't say I'm surprised. He's still hitting people. He's just less obvious about it.'

‘You know who we are?' Shoshana said, her voice faint.

Sila smiled.

‘Yes, Madame Ruffle. I've even been past your house. On a bicycle. Just a little Sunday bike ride. I didn't see you, the house is too big, too well protected. It's very beautiful, actually. So white …'

‘What did you want?'

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a little unhealthy curiosity. I'm here, that's all,' Sila said, his voice more determined.

‘You're here,' Shoshana said solemnly. ‘Are you going to hurt us?'

Sila looked into the fearful, trusting face leaning towards him. He realised she believed in him, for good and for ill.

‘That was never my intention. I'm just an observer. I wanted to understand.'

‘My God!' Shoshana burst out, burying her head in her hands. ‘I'm so ashamed.'

The man facing her with the impassive face of a judge said nothing. She stared at his hands as they lay on the table, young powerful hands. If only he would make the sign again.

He got to his feet, placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘You have nothing to be ashamed about. There's no reason for you to take the blame for this. And don't be afraid. I haven't come her to sow fear and discord. You can go back home and have no fear. I won't bother you.'

In his eyes, she could see only peace, but this time she did
not feel comforted. Quite the reverse, she felt more fragile and more guilty.

‘I'll go now,' she said. ‘Thank you for listening.'

Shoshana slowly took her leave. Discord and shame weighed on her more heavily than ever. It was time to say something. It was up to Mark to make things right. She had to tell him the waiter was here in Miami.

In the voluptuous sob of destruction, Lev stood firm. He knew everything could collapse, but for the first time in a long time, the dangerous instability of his life offered some amusement. Building was interesting, managing was boring but struggling on the edge of the void was entertaining. ELK was close to bankruptcy. Salary payments were suspended, as were payments to businesses and subcontractors, but there was no choice but to keep paying interest to the banks, which would otherwise cut off their credit line. Only the great god money could save him.